


Don't Touch Me

by TiredPanAndNotAFan (orphan_account)



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Haphephobia, Harassment, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Not Beta Read, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Harassment, Tell me if I missed anything, Touch-Averse, We Die Like Men, description of pain, im sad and projecting onto a demon, it's just kissing but it's still Bad, kind of, those two are seperate, touch-negative, vent fic, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TiredPanAndNotAFan
Summary: Beetlejuice does not like to be touched.Beetlejuice does not like to be touched without warning.Beetlejuice does not like to be touched by people who Will. Not. Stop.Beetlejuice does not like it when Lydia's cousin (no actual relation) insists upon touching him all throughout dinner, and after, and then follows him to the bathroom and shoves her tongue in his mouth.WARNING THERE IS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF PAIN (ex. sensations of burning and stabbing), DESCRIPTIONS OF SCARS AND SELF-HARM, ACTUAL SELF-HARM (not graphically described), AND HARASSMENT.BE SAFE
Relationships: None
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	Don't Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

> TW: self-harm, scars, descriptions of pain, harassment, non-consensual kissing  
> be safe there's a lot of stuff.
> 
> started writing this.  
> had a huge wave of disassociation and thoughts of self-harm.  
> Bon appetite.

Beetlejuice was on the roof. His hair was grayish-purple. His sweater-vest, a gift from Delia, was flung to the side, his pants were unzipped, his tie was loosened, and his belt hung loosely from the loops of his pants, long-since undone.The green beanie he wore to hide his hair was somewhere on the ground, probably. His black dress-shirt was unbuttoned at the top and the bottom, only the middle two buttons holding it in place. when he looked down, he saw the large, ever-present, half-healed wound from being stabbed in the back with bad art, and the dozens of self-inflicted scars that had once neatly slotted between his ribs, before he had taken to eating whenever he started feeling bad (and that was a lot).

In his effort to get things to stop touching him, he had exposed himself, and felt even worse for it. The Deetz were downstairs with all their extended family for a late Thanksgiving. They had tried to introduce him as their tenant, Lawrence, who needed a place to stay while he saved up for college. Then-- oh gods, then-- Lydia’s uncle took his hand and shook it without giving any warning. Being a trained expert in acting like nothing at all was wrong, he simply returned the gesture with a smile.  
But it had _hurt_.

Oh, gods, did it _hurt_.

It burned, it felt like needles were being shoved into his skin wherever he was being touched. It was even worse when Lydia’s grandma had wrapped him into a hug, and worse yet when some girl that Lydia said was a “cousin-by-marriage” (whatever that meant) had leaned into his side the entire dinner and threw him sultry looks whenever she could, trying to sneak her hand between his thighs. He had tried to shuffle away multiple times, but she kept on throwing scandalized looks at him whenever he did.  
So he sat there, his skin burning with being touched by something alive and warm against his own will, willing her to get up and move. However, that didn’t happen. When they got done eating and moved to the living room, Beetlejuice had tried to sit beside Lydia, on the end of the couch.  
The cousin had slid onto the arm of the chair and made herself a permanent attachment.

And instead of telling her to get off get off get _OFF_ , he sat there, smiling, chatting with Lydia’s family and spinning a fake story of him saving up for Julliard's drama program (actually, he had already graduated from Julliard, about fifty years ago). The cousin _oohed_ and _aahed_ , still not moving.

And it _burned_ and it _stabbed_ and it _hurt_ , and Beetlejuice did not do anything about it. He could feel the cousin’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, her fingertips feeling like knives stabbing through his shirt. Her side against his felt like a house fire, _bubbling_ and _crackling_ and _HOT_. He felt like his skin should be blistering and bursting.  
Her legs were nearly draped over him, they felt like a bed of nails being pressed into him, shoving sharp, thousand-degree points into every inch of his skin.  
But the worst thing was when she touched his face. She dragged her fingers down his cheek, and it felt like cutting when the cutting stopped feeling good. A horrible, laughing, doesn’t-help-at-all screeching _pain._

So he had excused himself, politely, to go to the bathroom, as any self-respecting demon would do (not that he respected himself. He was too horrible and greedy and disgusting for that.), running once he was out of sight and locking the bathroom door behind him.

But she followed him there. She knocked on the door, saying he could have just asked, whatever that meant, and tried to open it. Beetlejuice did not make a sound. She told him he could unlock the door, and that if he was “doing anything fun” she could help. He still did not do anything. She told him she thought he liked her. So Beetlejuice made a decision.

It was a very, _very_ bad decision.

He unlocked the door. He opened it. The cousin was standing there, her arms folded.

He told her a small white lie, a half-truth, even. He told her that he was gay, hoping she would leave him alone. She asked if he was sure, he liked her downstairs, didn’t he?

Beetlejuice told her he didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t interested.

She asked if he was sure. He nodded.

She grabbed his arms and pushed him into the bathroom, closing the door and locking it behind her. She pulled his tie out of where Barbara had tucked it neatly inside his sweater vest and pulled until it was almost choking him. She told him that she could change his mind. She told him not to yell. He didn’t, he couldn't, He couldn’t make a sound as she shoved her tongue into his mouth.

And he let her. He didn’t fight. He could have, but he deserved this, didn’t he? After all, when he wants to touch someone, it feels good. And he had done this, when he wanted to touch people before. What the cousin was doing to him right now, he had done to too many people before. He had done it to Adam.

So it was fair, completely justified. He deserved this. He leaned back against the wall and let it happen. It felt like hot coals on his tongue, fire licking at the roof of his mouth, knives scraping against his gums, and everything hurt, _hurt, **hurt.**_ Her hands were running up and down his chest, like claws ripping into his skin.

And then it was done. The cousin had leaned away from him, grabbing his shirt and shoving him back into the wall. She told him he was no fun, and then she left.  
He fled to the roof and tore off the beanie and the sweater vest, unbuckled his belt, loosened his tie, and messily unbuttoned his shirt. He still felt the phantom blisters all over him, his mouth still feeling raw, and he cried.

It was probably an ugly cry. Nothing Beetlejuice did was ever anything other than disgusting, in his own personal opinion. His tears felt hot and sticky and horrible, his scars burned, and the hole through his middle ached distantly. At this point his hair had turned entirely gray, more dark than light at this point.

He distantly remembers how when he used to feel something like this, his hair was purple. And it felt more sad than…

_Empty._

_He feels empty._

Beetlejuice fishes in his pocket and pulls out a small obsidian dagger and rolls up his sleeve.

It felt _wonderful._

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh comment pls idk what im doing


End file.
